


Unfinished Portrait

by musamihi



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Canon Era, First Meetings, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 08:14:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musamihi/pseuds/musamihi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A middling member of a painter's studio, Grantaire accepts an unremarkable portrait assignment - and meets his bristling, not altogether pleasant future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unfinished Portrait

**Author's Note:**

  * For [speciate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/speciate/gifts).



Ten o'clock in the morning was a miserable, uncivilized time to send a man out into the world. Grantaire dragged himself through the streets full of nothing but old, filthy snow and tenuous sunlight, accompanied only by a haphazard bag of the tools of his trade, and dreaded stepping into the neat, narrow house in the Rue de Jarente - knowing it would do him no favors, and that he was unlikely to leave much good in his wake, either. If it was wretched to have to sit and sketch at this hour, how much worse to sit and be sketched? Everything was too fresh, too tight, too awkwardly perfect – the ease and equilibrium of afternoon hadn't yet settled, nor the natural and disordered charm of evening. No one would come out of this unscathed. He would be warm, if he was lucky, but he'd been that in his bed, and so (he trusted) had Madame Poirier, his imminent subject. Nothing had been gained today aside from a prospective loss of canvas.

But some people couldn't leave well enough alone. And a friend who'd thrown the job his way had been paying for Grantaire's supper for going on three weeks, so there was a scent of obligation lingering over everything that he would much rather have dispelled. He'd never minded being in someone's debt, but he did sometimes suffer from brief and ill-advised bouts of desire for self improvement. 

And look where it had got him. He rang, and knocked, and, when the icicles dripping from the eaves began assailing his hat, attempted to let himself in, the reputation of the studio be damned. For a full minute no one answered.

Finally, a lanky gentleman just barely decent in his dressing gown – sensible fellow – ushered him in with rather more enthusiasm than Grantaire could ever have been when mustered out of bed looking quite so much as though he'd been clobbered over the head with a bottle or three of champagne. (There were unmistakable signs.) He was Lambert, he said, confirming Grantaire's suspicion that he was not M. Poirier, whom Prouvaire had described as huge and indolent and glum as a bear ( _but with such a heart, a passion you'd never believe_ ). Directed – not shown – to a drafty parlor full of grey windows and faun books, Grantaire collapsed gratefully into a chair to wait for Madame, who would be _only a moment, only a moment more_. Such was his utter lack of interest in the whole affair that he failed to notice the man seated stiff and still on the piano stool – until he moved, and Grantaire kicked over his bag with a sheepish start.

"Hello," Grantaire said accusingly, half-heartedly herding pencils with the sodden toe of his boot. "You might announce yourself, you know."

The man turned to look at him – or, rather, angled his face to the mirror hanging to his left and met Grantaire's eyes in the glass. He was striking; beautiful, in a severe and delicate way. It was a severe and delicate way that had been rather overdone in the last fifty years or so, of course, but that wasn't his fault, and Grantaire had never been one to steer away from cliché. He'd happily have painted him – easy lines, a few luxurious hours, a pretty variation on an uninspired theme.

"You're here to take the portrait." Not much in the way of manners, but his voice was rather fine.

"I am. To take the sketches, at least - in a moment, I'm assured." Grantaire stretched out as comfortably as possible, propping his feet onto his bag. "And you?"

The man held his gaze, as though appraising; he seemed distinctly unimpressed, to which Grantaire was, of course, accustomed. "My business is private."

"Aha – very good." Grantaire grinned. "Awfully sorry to have cut in; I known it's disgustingly early. She made the appointment herself, however."

That earned him a glare, and rightly so, of course; foul insinuation. And he ought to have guessed from that face that the man wouldn't have much of a sense of humor. Still, the gravity of that expression – he felt suddenly as though someone had opened a window and in had come winter. A virtuous creature. He was intrigued - he met very few virtuous anythings.

"That was rude of me," Grantaire conceded, continuing in his conversational manner as though he weren't being studiously ignored. "Perhaps she's your sister. I once met a –"

"I have business with Lambert." The man no longer deigned to meet Grantaire's eyes, looking instead at the keyboard with about as much interest as if it had been a bare patch of earth. "Who is her brother, and who would be very displeased to hear you speak of her in such a way."

"And who's slept right through his business with you, it seems." No paragon of virtue, M. Lambert. Grantaire doubted he'd mind too much. The man, again, said nothing, and Grantaire, again, pushed on undeterred. "This M. Poirier has a taste for useless aesthetes, it seems to me. He's taken one for an in-law, my friend Prouvaire practically lives off his table - which isn't a sin I'll be throwing stones at any time soon, but all the same - and –"

"You know Prouviare?" The incredulity in his voice was unmistakable, and not at all flattering.

"Very well indeed." He would have to remember to tell Jehan that their association was doing great harm to his good name in the better-heeled parlors of the city. "Are the two of you acquainted? He hasn't mentioned – I feel I'd have remembered."

"I haven't told you my name."

"He does have a way of describing."

The man sniffed and fell back into his taciturn disapproval. Not much of a conversationalist in any case, Grantaire thought, and was almost relieved when Madame came in to receive him. He liked her at once – when her eyes passed over the statue seated at the piano stool, they flickered with a delighted glint of predation. She'd have done a damned number on monsieur _private business_ , he'd wager. But then she turned to Grantaire, extended her hands, and they walked off together into the drawing room where Lambert was hurriedly adjusting an intricate and rather hideous drape behind the sitting chair. _Do pay ever so much attention to the detail_ , they both exhorted him; he supposed he'd done a less than satisfactory job of hiding his repulsion at the cloying array of cherubim with what appeared to be crossbows – industrious little buggers. But if Madame wanted it, she'd get it, at least from Grantaire, and so he sat for longer than he'd have credited himself able, making notes of the number, position, and direction of each of the apple-cheeked monsters. When he left, he hardly remembered what Madame looked like, if it wasn't fucking Cupid.

Prouvaire made an unexpected visit to the studio that afternoon, shaking Grantaire out of a well-deserved nap upon a bench.

"You." Grantaire was not inclined to charity. "When you say you have charming friends who want a portrait made, I don't expect to be stuck in a –"

"Can I see it?" Well, some greeting – everyone had lost his civility today, Grantaire reflected, his bonhomie. But he would forgive Prouvaire a lapse in courtesy, coming as it always did with a more than healthy dose of earnest urgency, and so he handed him one of the sheets.

"I was there halfway to forever. Famished. Still famished," Grantaire hinted; but he watched his insinuation float directly over Prouvaire's distracted head, and was reminded, somehow, of his virtuous creature at the piano. Not so virtuous to know vice when he smelled it, of course. That was good: rectitude was one thing, innocence something else entirely.

A few moments later Prouvaire rose from his study of all those damned angels, and gave him a winning smile that Grantaire knew to be thoroughly calculated. He'd perfected it himself years ago. "You don't mind if I keep it – surely you took another angle or three? I rather –"

"Good God. You want _that_?"

Prouvaire's smile betrayed him, allowed a fatal hint of sincere contrition. "I'm afraid I may have used you, you see."

"My dear, I'll grant she's a wonderful girl, but if you want something to stare after longingly I have a few that are more appropriate. You sadden me – she's not even showing her wrists."

"And you wrong me. No – it's the backdrop. I need it for this evening."

Something was beyond fishy; positively rotten. Grantaire began to feel as though he had been pulled out of bed and into the snowy streets under false pretenses, which admittedly was no less offensive than any other such dragging, but which did offer the potential to be more interesting. Still - not to be encouraged. He was not a prideful man, but one had to set the proper precedent. "I think you'd better tell me what it is you're talking about." He could forgive it for an affair of passion, but not for anything less. "I endured ten minutes of miserably scrutiny from what I can only assume was an unfrocked clergyman to get you this."

"Oh – you crossed paths with Enjolras, did you? It's for him you did it – not for me. Well, for all of us."

"Us?" To think that Prouvaire had associated with that fellow before and neglected to mention it seemed quite incredible. The man was eminently mentionable. "How do you fall in with these people?"

"Come tonight to the Café Musain. No – meet me in the Place Saint-Michel. I'll have to vouch for you."

"I've been to the Musain. I won't vouch for it."

"You've not been to the back room."

He had not. Which was as good a reason to go as any.

He went; and in the warm, dim, crowded room he picked out this Enjolras at once - no great feat with a tall, blond paragon of principle - and was treated to a reprise of the distasteful look he'd experienced this morning. "I suppose I ought to mention," he said as Prouvaire led him through the din, "I rather offended him this morning."

"I doubt it. You were talking politics?"

"Women."

"He's probably forgotten."

But it was clear by the flat, unyielding line of his mouth while Prouvaire made the introductions that he had not. "We met this morning," Enjolras said, regarding Grantaire without much expectation. "I hadn't guessed you were a man of opinions."

"Oh," Grantaire replied, squaring his shoulders in a decent approximation of affront, "none whatsoever."

"He's a good man." Prouvaire laid his hand on Grantaire's shoulder, leaning in slightly. "A good man, a good friend - an uncommon good." And Grantaire had the decency to look away, and to feel distinctly embarrassed.

There was something, though, about Enjolras' face that demanded attention; and not a moment later Grantaire had turned his eyes back to him, and saw, for the first time, something deeply unexpected there. Enjolras' wariness, disapproval, and aversion all were transformed - not dramatically, not with hesitation, not for show or courtesy but simply, genuinely transformed - into acceptance. To be sure, there was nothing effusive about it. He didn't even smile. But his doubts were wiped away, his brow relaxed, his eyes cleared, and he said without an ounce of double meaning: "Welcome, then," and turned away.

Grantaire found that he was touched despite himself. Anyone who acted so readily on the bare word of another man, particularly when he had his own damning evidence to go on, must have been at best simple, credulous, naive - and at worst disingenuous, self-righteous. But Enjolras, he knew (how on earth did he know? who was he, that he should trust a man's face when he spent his working hours warping them at will?), was none of that. Prouvaire had made him a promise, and he had taken it, as secure in its worth as an infant in its crib. Instead of scoffing, as he surely should have, Grantaire felt an affection starting in him. Prouvaire flattered him - next to _that_ , Grantaire's brand of good was little more than a shabby intention (not always fulfilled) to be something other than vile. Enjolras was something different. There was good - there was good he could barely recognize, let alone comprehend.

His own vehemence disturbed him. How ridiculous, to be drawing such high-flying conclusions from - what? - the shift of a muscle. He tried his best to banish this idea that was slowly gathering around him. He drank; he argued; he made merry and made friends; and a highly irreverent speech resulted at last in another dose of Enjolras' disapprobation, which came as an intense relief. He could not have said why - only that it felt more in the proper order of things that a man like Enjolras should not accept him. Grantaire left the back room of the Café Musain feeling that he had succeeded, at least, in cutting off at the root that troubling, nameless notion that there could be men like the one he thought he'd seen.

But he was also absolutely cured of his trifling desire to paint that beautiful but conventional (and Conventional) face; he'd have struck his own hand off before trying to commit it to paper. He tried, in fact, not to think of Enjolras at all.

But in the end, unprompted, he returned.


End file.
